


the sun, the moon, and all of his stars

by klairevoyance



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), azure moon claudeleth, just trust me, lil bit of angst, lotta fluff, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-10-29 11:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klairevoyance/pseuds/klairevoyance
Summary: “He— Dimitri… he needed me more,” she decides on.“Mmm,” he hums, leaning into her touch, his eyes sliding shut. “Do you think that’s still true?”





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**BYLETH**

“Nice try!” Jeralt quips. He twists experty away from the dulled tip of the training lance clutched in Byleth’s six-year-old hands. His movements are fluid, effortless— graceful, even, which was no small feat for a man of his stature.

Byleth can only clench her teeth in response, fingers tightening around the weapon’s worn wooden shaft. Jeralt regards her with a careful eye, tossing his branch-turned-sword from hand to hand.

“Don’t dwell on it, kid,” he calls. His gruff voice is betrayed by a note of warmth. “One miss won’t get’cha killed!”

He frowns. “Well, _ probably _not.”

Byleth takes up her stance, leveling the lance once again at her father. Jeralt’s eyes twinkle in a mischievous way— a way that seems to say _ ‘Strike again, if you dare.’ _

And Byleth _ does _ dare, she _ will _ strike — but not yet. Bull rushing Jeralt would earn her nothing but a lecture on _ tactics _ and _ timing _and other boring things she was too young to care about.

“We can sit here _ all _day, if ya want!” Comes Jeralt’s voice, slicing through her train of thought. 

Byleth knows he’s taunting her, knows he’s trying to goad her into reacting. A sharp retort bubbles to her lips, only to be cut short by the sound of loud voices coming from the mercenary camp nearby.

“Soups on, fellas!” One of them calls gleefully. Byleth listens, but does not look.

Her father, on the other hand, inclines his neck for just a fraction of a second, no doubt hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever his men had procured.

Time seems to slow.

_ There. _

Byleth dashes forward, her heels kicking up the dust beneath her, the lance braced against her body. Jeralt’s eyes snap back immediately, but his face is painted with surprise.

Nevertheless, he ducks under the weapon’s reach at the last possible second. The side of his tree branch collides against Byleth’s belly with just enough force to send her tumbling into the dirt.

“Ah— that’s twice now,” says Jeralt from above. “If you miss _ twice, _ you’re probably dead.”

Byleth lets the lance roll from her grip. She rests her flushed cheek against the cool ground and frowns. If only Jeralt would let her use a _ sword, _ instead of a glorified _ stick. _Alas, her father had always stressed the importance of being well-rounded, and although it pained Byleth to admit it, he had a point.

“Hey,” Jeralt’s boots scuffle to a stop, inches away from Byleth’s face. “It’s alright. You have to fall before you can walk, and you’ve gotta walk before you can run.”

He helps Byleth onto her feet, ruffling through her dark hair affectionately. Byleth tries (and fails) to hide her grin as he scoops her up onto his shoulders.

“You’ll get it eventually. I’ll see to it that you do.”

* * *

_Ck-k-k-k-k! _

The whiplike Sword of the Creator carves a path in the rising smoke as its target— an armored Imperial soldier— dodges its glowing edge. Byleth curses her shoddy aim as she watches her opponent scurry away into the burning trees of Gronder Field, no doubt to report her location back to his battalion.

_ One miss won’t get’cha killed. _Jeralt’s words echo in her mind. Her recollection of him feels ancient, fragile, as if it were written on the thinnest of parchment with the faintest of ink. 

She clings tightly to the ghost of his voice, willing her frayed nerves to soothe. Her shoulder twinges painfully as the Sword snaps back into place with a _ click. _It reminds her that she hadn’t only missed— she’d also allowed the soldier to land a sizeable blow, just inches from her neck. The ache of the fresh wound hurts almost as much as the memory of her father’s words.

A ringing war cry hauls Byleth out of the past and into the present. Somewhere to her left, flitting amongst the crackling flames, she hears voices— no doubt the escaped soldier returning with reinforcements.

Part of her wants to stay and fight. _ Needs _to stay and fight. The Sword of the Creator buzzes in her grip, as if it were agreeing with her.

But as figures begin to loom into view— first five, then ten, then _ twenty, _Byleth feels the scale in her mind tip. She cannot afford to die here— not when there was still so much left to be done, so many people still to save.

She takes one last breath before diving into the thickest part of the smog, hoping that the burning foliage and heavy air will throw the battalion off of her trail. Her smoke-filled lungs scream in protest as she dodges around greedy flames and dead bodies. Some of their faces seem familiar, but Byleth doesn’t stop, doesn’t look twice.

She cannot weep for them. Not here, not now.

The pursuing voices grow faint, as does does Byleth’s head. She’s forced to stop when her lungs threaten to burst, skittering to a halt at the foot of a great burning oak tree. She wills her brain to chug forward as she gasps for air, every breath rattling painfully in her chest.

She has no plan. The way forward is blocked by the massive tree, and the way back was surely choked with enemy soldiers. Even the canopy above her head had begun to catch fire, ash falling like rain atop her shoulders.

A nearby tree succumbs to the heat and falls, its blackened trunk crumbling against the forest floor. Byleth thinks idly how nice it would be to lie down, to feel the cool dirt against her scorched skin. Another memory surfaces— a memory of sprawling underneath blankets of stars, ears pricked as her father’s mercenaries swapped war stories. The campfires they huddled around had been so warm, so inviting.

Nothing like the flames consuming Gronder Field.

Nothing like the Crest silencing her heart.

The inferno from the fallen tree begins to spread, the flames licking at the ground just paces away from Byleth. She unsheathes the Sword of the Creator and, staring down the maw of the forest path, says a quick prayer.

“Don’t let me die,” she whispers, hoping that some deity was watching her mortal plight. “Not yet.”

* * *

The first few soldiers are felled easily. The Sword of the Creator shreds through their steel armor as if it were made of parchment. Byleth tunes out their cries as they crumple to the ground, lifeless. War had not made it any easier for her to kill.

The air thins as she pushes forward, the strain of battle sapping at her strength. She holds back a wretch as she plunges the Sword into the heart of another man, only for two more to take his place.

Byleth’s breath comes short and hot as she wills the Sword to unlink, to become an extension of her arm. She hoists it over her head, steeling her resolve, when suddenly her wounded shoulder gives. 

The Sword’s chain finds the dirt, and Byleth’s throat goes dry.

_ “Fell Star, _huh,” one of the approaching soldiers snickers. She wears a wicked grin and wields a lance dripping with sickly green poison. “The reward for your head will be grand!”

She charges with a strangled cry, and Byleth has only moments to weave around the tainted weapon. Her head reels as the soldier slashes again, knowing that one poisoned wound could easily spell her death. 

The Sword of the Creator moves to parry the incoming attacks, as if it had a mind of its own. Even so, Byleth can feel her strength waning. The lance’s length makes it hard for her to strike, especially since she didn’t dare unlink the Sword a second time.

_ Stupid lances, _she curses, dodging clumsily away from another lightning-fast stab. During her time as a professor, she’d forced swords or axes into the hands of nearly all the monastery's prolific lance users, parroting her father’s well-rounded methodology. Most of her students had been relatively receptive, save for—

_ Dimitri. _

Byleth prays he’s still alive, that the death he so desperately craved continued to elude him. The thought of his blood on her hands (more than what was already there, at least) is unbearable.

Concern for the King of Lions distracts Byleth— so much so that her opponent’s next attack comes a little too quickly for her to avoid. The lance’s edge scrapes along her arm, barely nicking her skin.

It’s enough.

The heat from the surrounding flames suddenly feels cool compared to how the shallow cut burns. Byleth screams as the flesh on her forearm swells and reddens before her eyes. With the last of her strength, she heaves the Sword through the air and into the chest of the soldier, who lets out a surprised _ unf _before collapsing to the ground.

The blaze is quickly replaced by total numbness. It grips Byleth’s arm, stealing away the sensation in her palm, followed by her fingers. She stumbles onto her knees, pressing the cloth of her tunic to the wound, desperate to staunch the flow of poison into her veins.

The second soldier, who until now had been watching from a distance, steps into view. His eyes glint as he steps carelessly over the body of his fallen counterpart. 

“You will die now,” he growls, brandishing his axe.

An unnatural stillness falls over the burning forest as the reality of death hits Byleth.

She’s not afraid— at least, not for herself.

She fears for Fódlan, for the futures of her former students. She fears for Dimitri and his Lions, the Emperor and her Eagles, and—

_ Thunk. Thunk, thunk. _

Byleth braces, her every muscle tensing, but the cold bite of steel never comes.

She looks up, only to stare directly into the bulging eyes of the Empire soldier as he staggers backwards. Three golden arrows sprout from his chest, their bloodied tips glowing with eldritch light. He opens his mouth and vomits a torrent of blood before falling to the ground, dead.

Before Byleth can fully register the scene, a rust-red wyvern descends from the treetops, its wings beating furiously against the flames. Despite the smoke, despite the poison clouding her mind, she knows exactly who has come to her aid.

“Miss me, Teach?” Claude von Riegan’s voice is deeper than Byleth remembers it being. He slips off the wyvern’s back and tosses his shining bow into the burning dirt.

He looks… different, but the same. Broader, taller. A patterned cloth covers much of his face, but his eyes are unmistakable.

Byleth wants to greet him, wants to thank him for saving her life, but all she can manage to do is gesture weakly to her wound. The veins under her skin were turning black, her vision growing fainter with every blink.

Claude stops in his tracks, his easy smile vanishing in an instant. He hisses a curse in an unfamiliar tongue before scrambling back to his wyvern.

Byleth’s eyes close, and she finds herself struggling to reopen them. Maybe it’s the poison pulling her under, or perhaps it’s just sheer exhaustion.

Dying here wouldn’t be the _ worst _thing in the world, she thinks. She could probably impose a dying wish upon her rescuer— to find the Lions, to protect them. Claude had always struck her as the unexpectedly reliable type.

He’s suddenly at her side, several small vials clutched in his gloved hand.

“Hey, hey,” his voice rouses Byleth, but only barely. “Stay with me, okay? Here, I need you to drink this…”

He brings a vial to Byleth’s lips, tipping the foul-tasting liquid into her mouth. 

“There ya go,” his voice is calm, steady. Despite their situation, Byleth feels herself relax into him. After a few more moments, sensation returns to her fingertips. She flexes them, only to realize that she had been gripping Claude’s side as the poison wracked her body.

“Better?” He asks, casting the empty bottle aside and uncorking another.

“Yes,” Byleth affirms, her voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

She attempts to sit up, but is quickly stopped by the pain in her ribs.

“Ah-ah,” Claude chides. “Just… stay there for a sec, alright? Here, this one’s a painkiller. It’ll hel—”

“CLAUDE!”

A voice that is unmistakably Dimitri’s howls from the other side of the forest path. He stumbles into view, his fur cape singed and blackened, the tip of Areadbhar dripping with blood. Dread floods Byleth’s mind as he levels the lance at Claude’s chest.

She could not let them kill each other.

“We don’t have to fight, Dimitri,” Claude says slowly, his words dripping with milk and honey. He raises his arms, palms out, but Byleth doesn’t miss the way his hand twitches reflexively towards his back.

“Move!” Dimitri roars. “Get away from her!”

“I’m _ helping _ her, Dimitri, she was _ dying _until I—”

Dimitri looses another animalistic snarl and charges forward.

“Would you just _ listen?!” _There’s a hint of frustration in Claude’s voice as he lurches away. His eyes flicker to his bow, still out of arm’s reach. 

Byleth tries to shout, but her words catch in her raw throat. She has to reign Dimitri in, has to tell Claude not to hurt him. She attempts to stand, but the world around her spins, and her knees once again find the dirt. Claude glances worriedly in her direction as he ducks under Areadbhar’s edge. 

Byleth gapes, her broken thoughts floating uselessly in her foggy mind. How was she to stop them when her legs felt boneless beneath her?

A glint suddenly catches her eye— the Sword of the Creator, still buried in the chest of the Empire soldier it had slain. 

Byleth falls onto her palms and crawls across the forest floor, her body screaming in protest. She grits her teeth and pulls the bloodied Sword from the soldier’s chest. Tapping into her last reserve of strength, she wills it to unlink and lashes it across the clearing. 

Her muscles tear and bleed, but her aim is true. The tip drives into the ground; the Sword’s chain stretches right across Dimitri’s path. He can’t slow down enough to avoid it, and so he trips and falls with an agonized wail.

Claude reacts without hesitation, tearing around Dimitri, retrieving his bow, and hurdling onto his wyvern in one fluid motion. The beast takes to the sky with one mighty beat, the sudden breeze stoking the ever-growing flames

For the second time, the forest is eerily silent. Byleth lets the Sword slip from her hand, a relieved sob wracking her chest. Dimitri is at her side in an instant, his fists clenched, his expression tortured.

“I missed,” she lies, before her consciousness finally slips away.

* * *

Time passes, and as it passes, it heals.

Dimitri claws his way out of his abyss, one hand digging into handfuls of his own self-loathing, the other hand holding fast to Byleth. She guides him through his worst nights, heals the wounds on his skin and on his soul.

Despite her best efforts, the ice encasing Dimitri's heart doesn't crack— that is, until Dedue's return.

He stumbles up the monastery's steps on the coldest day of the year, and the former Blue Lions feast in his honor. Byleth joins in the revelry, the food and company offering a quick reprieve from the harsh reality of war. For a few moments, amidst the dancing and the mead and the lights, she imagines she’s still just a mercenary-turned-professor, guiding her students towards success.

For a few moments, she forgets that she’s now doing her best to keep those same students from joining the ranks of the dead.

The celebration stretches late into the night, the denizens of Garreg Mach growing raucous as the stars above blaze to life. Byleth pretends not to notice when Dimitri and Dedue sneak away, and averts her eyes when she spots them later, huddled together in the courtyard, their hands clasped.

* * *

A haggard Alliance messenger arrives from Derdriu a moon later with grave news. Dimitri is the first to act.

“We will go. I must atone,” he shares with Byleth in the privacy of the empty war room. He clutches tightly to a figurine, hastily painted yellow. Annette had procured it the day before, plopping it down onto the war map gleefully.

_ “It’s Claude!” _ She had exclaimed. _ “See, because it’s yellow!” _

Byleth, too, yearns to march to Derdriu, but for reasons other than atonement— reasons she refuses to share during a war.

* * *

It’s an arduous journey through Alliance territory. Dimitri speaks to the camps every night, instills his battalions with the courage to continue onward. Byleth watches and listens, and for the first time she thinks Dimitri truly looks the part of a king. 

When the banner of House Blaiddyd crests the final hill, cheers erupt within Derdriu’s walls. The battle is long, grueling, with losses on both sides. Eventually, though, the Kingdom’s army overwhelms the exhausted Empire troops, forcing them to retreat. 

When the last enemy soldier disappears into the horizon, Byleth sheathes the Sword of the Creator and takes a steadying breath. Dimitri stands at her side, his armor spattered with blood. He surveys the carnage, and Byleth swears she can see ghosts flickering in his eye.

“When will it end?” His voice cracks, and Byleth’s heart aches.

“Soon.”

* * *

They meet Claude down on the sea docks. He dismounts from an impossibly large white wyvern and greets them with warm words. Dimitri is cautious at first, no doubt recalling their last meeting. He opts to stand one step behind Byleth, but even he eventually falls prey to Claude’s charismatic ways. Before long, the two of them are razzing each other, reminiscing about their time at the monastery.

Stolen moments pass quickly amidst the sound of ocean waves. Claude’s trademark smile falters ever so slightly when he talks of the Alliance’s planned dissolution, and his decision to leave Fódlan.

“Ah, Your Kingliness,” he addresses Dimitri, but inclines his head towards Byleth. “Would you mind… giving us a minute?”

Dimitri’s cheeks redden, but he dutifully turns heel and paces away. Byleth suddenly feels very warm, as if the sun had risen back up from behind the mountains to shine directly on her.

“I want you to have this,” Claude unlatches the golden bow— Failnaught— from his back sling and offers it to Byleth. The glow surrounding it dims as soon as it changes hands, as if it knew it was no longer in the possession of its true master.

“I can’t,” Byleth shakes her head, as if doing so could calm her turbulent thoughts.

“You can,” Claude insists. “Please. It won’t be welcome where I’m headed. I know you’ll take care of it.”

He looks over her shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“Just like I know you’ll take care of him.”

A confession bubbles to Byleth’s lips, but she swallows it down in favor of a silent nod. She clutches the weapon tightly as Claude turns away, mounting the white wyvern and soaring away towards the ocean.

When Dimitri returns to her side, he places a gentle hand on her shoulder. Unspoken emotions pass between the two of them— sadness, uncertainty.

Yearning.

As soon as Claude is out of sight, Failnaught’s light dies.

* * *

Dimitri’s coronation marks the end of the war. The feasting and merriment lasts for days, and when the newly crowned King of Fódlan shares his plan to wed Dedue, the hollers from the former Blue Lions could be heard across Fhirdiad. Byleth enjoys every second of her stay in the Kingdom’s capital, but knows that Garreg Mach impatiently awaits her return. On the seventh night following the ceremony, she requests a horse from the stables.

“Stay close,” Dimitri murmurs, hugging her tightly to his chest at the castle’s gates. “And should you need anything, do not hesitate to call my name.”

His voice drops suddenly, his lips brush against her ear.

“Even if what you need is safe passage to Almyra.”

* * *

Life at Garreg Mach slowly returns to normal. Seteth is more than happy to put Byleth to work, along with the handful of her former students that followed her back to the monastery. It doesn’t take long for new students to begin arriving at the Officer’s Academy, bright-eyed and ready to be taught. Their youthful energy brings color back to the ancient stone buildings, and soon the monastery and its adjacent village bustle once again.

Byleh splits her time between her duties as archbishop and serving on His Majesty’s council. She and Ashe, her appointed knight, journey frequently to Fhirdiad in order to attend the King’s roundtables. Dimitri works tirelessly in the capital, determined to right the wrongs of leaders that came before him. Even so, he’s always among those waiting at the castle gates to receive Byleth. He listens eagerly to her reports over cups of chamomile tea, the dark shadows that used to plague his face long gone.

It all feels… _ normal _to Byleth. Just as traipsing around with her father’s men had been normal, just as cobbling together lesson plans had been normal. Life settles into a comfortable routine, and although her work keeps her busy, Byleth is still able to find time to cast a line into the pond with Seteth, or practice healing spells with Mercedes.

Sometimes, she completely forgets about the blanket-wrapped bow hidden underneath her bed, and its owner.

Other times, they’re all she can think about.

* * *

_“Almyra!?” _Ashe sputters over his dinner plate. Annette, seated next to him, delivers a solid smack to his shoulders.

“Rude,” she scolds, and Ashe reels.

“Just… why?” He wipes at his face. “Why there— why _ now?” _

“It’s important that I go,” Byleth replies quietly. Several students watch them from the other end of the long dining hall table— no doubt curious as to why Professor Annette was eating with the archbishop and her knight. 

Ashe blinks, but doesn’t press further. 

“Okay, I’ll get you there,” he says. “We’ll need to let His Highness know. And we’ll probably have to contact House Goneril, as well.”

“Ah, I have a student with ties to House Goneril!” Annette pipes up, eager as always to contribute. She and Ashe begin hashing out logistics, leaving Byleth to eat in a sliver of peace.

That night, she dreams of burning trees and shimmering bows, and of a tall figure draped in gold.

* * *

Word from Fhirdiad arrives a week later in the form of a sealed letter addressed to Byleth. 

> _My friend,_
> 
> _I have received the news of your intent to travel to Almyra. I ask that you take a battalion of at least thirty, including Ashe, and provisions for at least a moon. Although our friend to the East has been doing good work, I fear there may still be some beyond our borders who are hostile towards those of Fódlandian blood._
> 
> _Accomplish what you must. And give the King my regards._
> 
> _Dimitri_

* * *

The messenger sent to House Goneril returns on the morning of the convoy’s departure.

“Lord Holst will send someone to guide you through Fódlan’s Throat,” the young Academy student reports. “Although he didn’t say _who."_

* * *

Hilda Goneril’s pink hair is unmistakable, as is the cheery tone she uses to call out to the approaching convoy. She hugs Byleth so tightly that the joints in her back pop, and the kiss she plants on Ashe’s cheek turns him a hilarious shade of magenta.

“Sooo, what’s got you headed to Almyra?” She asks, her voice barely audible over the ruckus of the village pub hosting the convoy. She wears a peculiar look— a look that makes Byleth think she may have already figured it out.

“I’m… returning something. To someone,” Byleth is unsure why she’s being so vague. Perhaps it was because Hilda still intimidated her a bit. Her sharp eyes never seemed to miss anything, and while she was quick to feign weakness, Byleth had seen her cleave a soldier in half with Freikugel.

“Well, _ I _volunteered for this job because I wanted to see my old pal Claude,” Hilda hums, drinking deeply from her goblet. “I thought you might be headed to see him, too.”

Byleth chokes on her drink, her face suddenly hot.

“How did you know?” She leans closer to Hilda. The only person privy to her plan was Dimitri— not even Ashe knew the true reason behind their voyage.

“You’re cute when you blush,” Hilda comments, which only furthers the problem. “I just have a knack for these sorts of things. Don’t worry— your secret’s safe with me.”

Their conversation is cut short by a drunk village man. He stumbles up to their table and asks Hilda to dance, his words slurring together. Hilda looks him up and down before landing a sharp flick on his forehead. He promptly crumbles to the ground, and she rolls her eyes.

“Amateur,” she mutters, before raising her glass to the barkeep for a refill.

* * *

The Fódlandian oak trees give way to Almyran pines as Hilda leads the convoy across Fódlan’s Throat. She’s full of knowledge about the area— naming foreign plants and animals, pointing out landmarks that Byleth had only read about in texts. Ashe scribbles furiously in his notebook, eager to absorb every piece of information Hilda can offer.

They give the villages wide berths, as to not incite panic. Occasionally, they pass caravans going the opposite direction down the worn path. Hilda greets them with a few stammered words in a foreign language, and they respond with curt nods and curious stares.

The march to Eastern Almyra takes five days, and Byleth becomes more grateful for Hilda’s company with each passing hour. She is outgoing and friendly, and more often than not the strangers they encounter take a shining to her almost immediately.

“Heading to the capital, eh?” A passing trader comments. “The King will be happy to host visitors from Fódlan. You know he has Fódlandian blood, yes?”

“I had no idea,” Hilda replies, a look of feigned shock on her face. Byleth has to pull her cowl over her mouth to hide her smile.

* * *

Word of Byleth’s journey spreads quickly throughout the land— so quickly, in fact, that the Almyran capital is expecting them when they arrive. The gates of the great stone castle are open and decorated with pine wreaths and flower garlands, and battalions of cavaliers salute Byleth as she passes by.

At the mouth of the castle, looking as he had in Byleth’s dreams for the past year, stands Claude von Riegan.

“Is all of this really necessary?” Hilda is the first to speak, tacking on a quick “Your Majesty!”

Claude laughs and takes her into his arms. He does the same to Ashe, before turning to Byleth.

“Welcome, archbishop,” he offers her a polite bow. “It’s a pleasure to host you.”

Byleth pauses, thrown off by the formality of his greeting. Hilda, too, raises an eyebrow, but they don’t have time to confer before Claude is speaking again.

“Tonight, we feast in honor of our friends from Fódlan!”

His declaration is met with roaring cheers as the denizens of the castle scurry away. Claude assigns a steward to each of them before being swept elsewhere, presumably to oversee preparations. Byleth allows herself to be led into the castle, up the polished stone staircase and into a lavishly decorated room.

Hilda ignores her steward, opting instead to stalk after Byleth.

_ “It’s a pleasure to host you,” _ her impersonation of Claude is scarily accurate. “Seriously, what was _ up _with him?”

“Maybe he felt awkward,” Byleth shrugs unconvincingly. “It’s been a while.”

She pulls the heavy knapsack from her shoulders and lays it on the bed before collapsing into the pillows. Hilda flops down next to her with a long-suffering sigh.

“Boys are so _ complicated,” _ she moans into the linens. “See, _ this _is why I date girls.”

* * *

The welcome party is held on the castle grounds, around an enormous and fragrant fire. A band of musicians play song after joyful song, and Byleth faintly recognizes a few of them as tunes Claude used to hum whilst prowling the monastery.

Speaking of Claude, Byleth tries very hard not to stare at him from her seat near the castle steps. His movements through the masses of dancing people are effortless, the gold inlay of his tunic flickering in the light of the fire.

He is a well-loved king. Byleth knows this because the way his subjects look at him is familiar— it’s the same way Dimitri’s court looks upon him.

Although, the Fódlandian King didn’t incite quite as much _lust _as his Almyran counterpart. The longing gazes of men and women alike follow Claude wherever he goes. Their hands reach out to touch him, to request a dance, knowing that their beloved monarch would never turn them away.

“By-_leth,”_ Hilda suddenly appears from within the crowds. Her cheeks are flushed, the fringe of her borrowed Almyran dress tangled.

“D’you wanna dance?”

Byleth didn’t consider herself particularly apt at dancing, but the look on Hilda’s face is hard to deny. She takes her hand, and Hilda all but squeals with delight. Before Byleth can register what’s happening, she finds herself being dragged towards the musicians, into the writhing mass of celebrating people.

They swing together under the starry Almyran sky, keeping time relatively well with the thudding beat of the drums. Byleth feels a smile creep slowly onto her face, and before she knows it she’s laughing with Hilda and humming along to the music. Eventually, it crescendos, and the couples around them exchange partners randomly, as if they were all part of some chaotic ballroom dance.

Hilda lets go of Byleth with a knowing look, falling instead into the embrace of an Almyran girl with long, braided hair. Byleth turns, arms open, ready to be received by whoever happened to be standing behind her.

“Ah, Teach! Er, _archbishop.”_

_ Damn you, Hilda, _Byleth curses the conniving girl as Claude loops an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

“Just Byleth is fine,” she says quietly, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Byleth, then,” he repeats with a smile. “Sorry for my not-so-warm welcome earlier. I wasn’t sure how seriously you were taking this whole _ archbishop _business.”

_Ah,_ Byleth thinks. Relief floods her mind, and she feels her shoulders relax. 

“Not very seriously,” she affirms, placing a tentative hand on Claude’s chest. “At least, not when it comes to the pomp and circumstance.

“Nothing wrong with a little pomp and circumstance,” Claude’s eyes twinkle. He leads well— so well that Byleth feels less like she’s dancing and more like she’s floating. He twirls her once, twice, stopping only to thread his fingers through the glittering fringe of her borrowed dress.

“Almyra looks good on you, by the way.”

“Thank your stewards,” Byleth replies, hoping her cheeks weren’t too terribly red. “They insisted that I not wear garments of war to a party.”

“They have a point,” Claude winks. He cranes his neck over Byleth and shouts something in Almyran to the band. The music slows down, becomes softer, sweeter. Couples seem to grow closer, and Byleth feels Claude's arm tighten around her, pressing her body into his.

An odd emotion stir in her stomach as they dance, the minutes falling away like the sands of a cloudless beach. Byleth eventually chances a glance up at Claude's face, only to find his eyes closed, his mouth curved into a soft smile. He’s handsome— dazzling, even— the low light of the fire turning his skin to bronze and his hair to copper.

“Tell me,” he says, his eyes still shut. “Has the King of Fódlan… asked for your hand yet?”

Byleth stops in her tracks, causing the adjacent couple to bump into them. They both open their mouths to scold her, until they notice who she’s coupled with.

“Dimitri?” She finally manages to say. “Oh, no. It was— we were never like that.”

Claude’s eyes open, and a hint of pink finds its way into his cheeks. 

“I— ah. It wasn’t?” He asks.

“No. Absolutely no,” Byleth shakes her head. “He’s actually betrothed.”

“To who?”

“Dedue.”

Claude's eyebrows knit with an emotion resembling both relief and shock. For once, he seems to be at a loss for words.

“That’s— um,” he presses his lips together in a hard line. “Listen, do you want to go inside for a bit? I suddenly feel as if we have a lot to catch up on.”

* * *

Claude requests a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses from the kitchens. They appear so quickly in his hands that Byleth wonders whether they were actually delivered or just magically conjured. He leads her up the stone staircase and to an ornate door, behind which is his personal study.

The room is eclectic in a way befitting its owner. Several desks crowd one end of the room, each filled to the brim with curiosities— parchment, instruments, bottles of colored liquid. A vast map stretches across one of the walls, detailing lands that Byleth has never even seen mentioned in the monastery’s many textbooks. 

“So,” Claude clears his throat as he settles into a plush couch. “Dimitri and Dedue, huh. Can't say I saw that one coming.”

He pours the wine generously before taking a swig directly from the bottle. Byleth can’t help but smile as she sits next to him, relieved to see a glimmer of his old self peering from behind his royal façade.

“I did,” she replies, sipping her wine. It’s pleasantly tangy, and leaves a uniquely floral taste in her mouth. “I knew the moment Dedue returned to the monastery.”

“Well, I’m happy,” Claude says. “For them. And for other reasons.”

Byleth waits, her lungs still. If her heart could beat, she knew it would be pounding.

Claude looks up from his glass, his expression suddenly complicated.

“I’m… about to say some things unbecoming of a king,” he half-smiles. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Me first,” the words spill from Byleth’s mouth in a burst of courage, surprising them both. Claude blinks, but gestures for her to continue.

“In Derdriu… why did you leave Failnaught with me?”

The question catches Claude off guard, if only for a moment. A contemplative crease forms between his eyes as he drinks deeply from his glass.

“I have a few answers,” he finally decides on. “I meant it when I said it wouldn’t be welcome here. How do you think the people would feel if I arrived at the castle, ready to take the crown with a symbol of Fódlan strapped to my back?”

“But there _was_ another reason, and it's not one I'm proud of,” his voice lowers, and Byleth shivers. “I knew that by leaving the bow with you, I’d get to see you again. Somewhere. Someday.”

Silence falls over the room. Somewhere outside, the thudding drums pick up once more.

“You knew I’d return it,” Byleth nearly whispers, hear head spinning. She remembers the unreadable look on Claude’s face as he handed her the weapon, remembers the many nights she spent studying it behind her locked bedroom door.

“I _ hoped _you’d return it,” Claude places his empty glass on the floor and leans into the space separating him from Byleth. She can feel heat rolling off his body, and finds herself longing to lean into it, to smell the wine on his breath and the soap in his hair and the gold laced into the fabric of his shirt.

“Was I right?”

* * *

Failnaught shines brightly when Byleth places it in Claude’s grip, but only for a moment, because as soon as she does Claude casts it to the ground. He takes her up in his arms and presses his lips against hers, and all the things Byleth should’ve but didn’t say before come pouring from her mouth.

That night, as the festivities on the castle grounds continued, as the drinks flowed and the music played, the Almyran King found solace between Byleth’s trembling legs. She, too, let all her unfelt feelings loose, gasping his name and gripping his flesh and reveling in the way he could make the sun and the moon and all the stars shine behind her eyes.

* * *

“Why didn’t you pick me? Back at the Academy,” Claude’s voice is quiet, vulnerable. He presses his lips into the skin of Byleth’s neck, naked and spent, the light from the room’s lone candle casting a dark shadow on his face.

“He— Dimitri… he needed me more,” Byleth decides on. She runs her fingers through his mussed hair, traces the sharp line of his jaw.

“Mmm,” he hums, leaning into her touch, his eyes sliding shut. “Do you think that’s still true?”

* * *

**CLAUDE**

The convoy from Fódlan stays in Almyra for an entire moon, but it’s still not long enough.

The morning of Byleth’s departure is dark and gloomy, as if the land itself wished to reflect Claude’s mood. He had always excelled at the subtle art of Faking It, but his smile slips away more often than usual as he goes through his morning paces.

By the time he makes it to the banquet hall for breakfast, Byleth is already there. She sits with Ashe, their heads close as they pour over a tactical map. They point and mutter to each other, no doubt discussing the best routes to take home. They’ve already shed their Almyran clothes in favor of Fhirdiad-issued armor— a sight that makes Claude’s heart clench.

Not that he could tell them that. What right did he have to make demands of the King of Fódlan’s chosen council? To make demands of _ her? _If his war experience had taught him anything, it was that most pots were better left unstirred.

… Not that he _ really _expected Dimitri to react if he were to steal away his archbishop. Sure, it may strain their relationship for a time, but he’d get over it. Probably.

Claude contemplates the situation as he chews on a piece of seed-covered Almyran bread. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Byleth looking in his direction, her expression unreadable.

He couldn’t just let her leave. There _ had _to be a way.

And so the wheels begin to turn in his head, as they had done many times before. An idea takes shape, detail by tiny detail.

He certainly couldn’t ask her to come to _ him, _ but what if he had a reason to come to _ her?_

His mind wanders to Failnaught, tucked away in the cabinets of his study.

It had already worked for him once.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Byleth’s soldiers to assemble at the castle gates. Hilda is there too, but only to see them off, as she had elected to enjoy Claude’s hospitality for a few days more. She rubs her eyes sleepily as Ashe and the rest of the company load their convoys with well-wishes from Almyra. Claude had double-checked that they included heaps of the candied meats that Byleth had raved over. It was a small gesture, sure, by Byleth was the type to notice such things.

Claude keeps the easy smile cemented on his face as the last wagon closes, as the men mount their horses and assume their formation. Behind his back, partially wrapped in a leather sheath, is the cornerstone of his plan— Failnaught.

He had experimented with it some nights before, trying to determine just how much of a barrier had to separate him from the bow’s surface to avoid its reaction to his Crest. Turns out that a doubly-gloved hand and a thick layer of leather was enough to confuse the relic.

Ashe gives his orders, and the convoy begins to move. Claude knows he must act. 

“Byleth! Wait!” He tries to keep his voice as light and casual as possible. Even so, Hilda tuts knowingly at his side.

_Nothing_ got past her.

Byleth turns, her eyebrows scrunched together. Claude both loved and feared that look. Loved it, because he relished the opportunity to guess her thoughts. Feared it, because he was usually wrong.

She slides off her horse and hands the reigns to Ashe, whom she waves off with a gesture that clearly says _ this won’t take long. _Ashe, tactful as always, orders the convoy to continue marching, albeit slowly.

“Miss me already?” Byleth says after jogging back to the mouth of the castle. Hilda snickers into her shirt sleeve— a reaction that Claude promptly ignores.

“Yes, but that’s not why I stopped you,” he says. “I have a last-minute request.”

For the second time in his life, he offers Byleth the relic of House Riegan, the God-Shattering Star.

“It’s… it’s dark?” Byleth’s eyes widen with shock, and Claude cheers internally. Sure, part of him feels a little guilty for deceiving her. But deep down (okay, _ really _deep down) he was doing it with good intentions.

Even if they were sort of selfish.

“It hasn’t reacted to me since you returned it,” he goes on to explain. “I was thinking you could take it back to Garreg Mach, to Professor Hanneman. Maybe he’ll be able to tell what’s wrong with it.”

Byleth looks conflicted, and for good reason, Claude thinks. After all, the whole reason she made the trek to Almyra was to return the very weapon he was now offering back to her. At least, that was the reason she openly _ claimed. _ Claude was the only one who knew of her _ true _motive.

And maybe Hilda.

“Can’t you just bring it yourself?” Byleth says after a moment.

“I’m not so sure someone like me would be able to waltz into Fódlan,” Claude laughs. “At least, not yet. But if, say, the _ archbishop _ invited me to visit the monastery…”

Something suddenly glints in Byleth’s eyes, as if the nebulous pieces of Claude’s plan had finally clicked together. 

“Okay,” she says, but does not take the bow. Her lip quivers, as if it was barely holding back the words in her mouth. Claude want desperately to reach out, to fit his hand underneath her chin and tip her lips up to his.

Alas, the many eyes upon his back keep him from acting. Instead, he stills, waits, _ begs_ for her to say the words he longs to hear.

The silence is broken not by a request to remain, but by Ashe’s voice shouting _ Byleth! _Despite instructing his men to march slowly, they were already over the first hills bordering the Almyran capital.

“Better not keep them waiting,” Claude provides her with an out, even though he wants nothing more than her to stay. Byleth swallows whatever words were in her throat and grasps the uncovered shaft of the bow, tucking it expertly into her back sling. She turns away without a second glance. 

It happens so quickly that she doesn’t seem to notice the way Failnaught gleams in response to her touch, how its spines wriggle to life, as if the weapon were alive and grateful to feel the touch of the Crest of Riegan.

Claude was King of Almyra, and a war-forged soldier, too. His friends called him a master tactician and his enemies called him a schemer. He built his reputation on his ability to never lose his composure— not even in the face of a battle he would surely lose.

… But in that moment, the implication of the glowing bow strapped to Byleth’s back steals the breath from his lungs.

Did she know?

Was it even _ possible _ for her to know?

“Claude,” Hilda’s voice is beside him. “Tell me I didn’t see what I think I just saw.”

“I— uh—,” Claude’s mouth can’t keep up with his brain. He scrambles for words, some semblance of an excuse, or a lie…

He settles instead for a bribe.  
  
“How much is it gonna cost me for you to pretend you didn’t see that?”

Hilda rocks back on her heels, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Godmother,” she finally decides on. Claude blanches.

“Hilda, I—”

“What was that?” Hilda yawns artificially. “Wow, I am _ exhausted. _ You _ know _how gossipy I get when I’m tired.”

“Fine! Fine,” Claude hisses. He runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “Since when are you such a vicious negotiator?” 

“What can I say?” Hilda elbows him in the ribs before turning back towards the castle. “I learned from the _ very _best.”


	2. Chapter 2

**CLAUDE**

_Tap, tap, tap. _

Claude’s eyes slide open reluctantly, his vision blurred with sleep. The sky outside his bedroom window is streaked pink and orange, the sun barely beginning to crest over the Almyran pines. It’s early— _ too _early for the likes of him.

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

He ponders the legality of a ‘no knocking’ law as he rolls to the other side of his bed. A familiar scent cuts through the morning haze, and he reaches out, his fingers searching the empty white sheets.

_ Byleth. _

The bed still smells faintly of her, of mulled cider and elderberries, despite her having departed nearly a week ago. Claude clutches tightly to the fabric, breathing in deeply, desperately. Memories of her flicker behind his eyes— her body against his, her breath hot on his neck, her hands tracing patterns on his chest, gripping his—

_ BANG, BANG, BANG. _

“O-_ kay!” _Claude groans. He slides out of the sheets, wincing as his bare feet hit the cool stone floor. He turns several scathing words over in his mouth, only to have them all slide down his throat when he pushes the door open.

“You never were a morning person,” Hilda is dressed in full armor, a large rucksack slung over her shoulder. A smirk plays on her lips as she eyes his untidy hair.

“You’re leaving?” Claude clears his throat. “Already?”

“Don’t act _ too _excited,” Hilda teases. “But yes. Believe it or not, I have things to attend to back home.”

“News to me,” Claude winks. Hilda elbows him sharply in the ribs before pulling him into a hug. Her floral perfume chases the smell of mulled cider out of his nose, out of his mind.

“Send for me if you need me, mm’kay?” Her voice takes on a softness that Claude knows is reserved only for him. “Although, I expect I’ll see you traveling through Goneril territory soon enough.”

She leaves without fuss or fanfare, slipping through the castle gates before breakfast is even served. Claude watches her disappear into the rolling hills, taking with her one of his last links to a life he left behind.

* * *

The days following Hilda’s departure are eerily hollow. As the winter months grip the Almyran countryside, Claude distracts himself the only way he knows how— by burying himself in work.

He spends hours camped in his studies, unlocking the doors only to wolf down whatever food the kitchens had left for him. He pens letter after letter to his allies in Fódlan— the Kingdom, the former Leicester territories, hell, even the surrounding nations.

Occasionally, he travels through his own country, campaigning for peace and open borders. He smiles and winks and kisses the foreheads of babies, and the Almyran people cling to his every word.

His efforts don’t take long to bear fruit. 

“There’s a Fódlandian merchant in the castle market,” the guard reports one particularly cold morning. Claude quickly dons an unadorned cloak and a patterned Almyran scarf, eager to see for himself.

The market is nearly empty, its usual bustling crowd no doubt chased away by the chill. Claude slips among the stalls, undetected, blinking snowflakes away from his eyes. Eventually, he spots a merchant dressed in thick Faerghus furs at the very edge of the grounds.

_ “Good fortune to you,” _she greets Claude in slow, purposeful Almyran. 

“Ah, very well done,” he replies in Fódlan’s language, and the merchant’s brow knits curiously. Her cart is laden with goods— salted pike from the Airmid River, deep purple Albinean berries. Claude cards through the bundles of dried tea leaves, and feels his heart skip when he spots the unmistakable yellow petals of Leicester Cortania.

“I’ll take that,” he gestures. “All of it. Please.”

He fishes several heavy gold pieces out of his cloak as the merchant wraps his purchase. They chat idly, about the weather, about peacetime. She mentions meeting several Almyran traders while passing through Fódlan’s Throat, and how they had taught her a few bits of their language.

“The Church of Seiros was wrong about this country,” she says, pressing the tea leaves into Claude’s outstretched hand. “And I’m not the only one that thinks so.” 

“That means a lot to me,” Claude beams. “Enjoy your stay, yeah?”

“I will,” the merchant assures him. “It’s beautiful here. And _ so _much warmer than Faerghus.”

* * *

Winter thaws, as do the last few hostilities between Almyra and it’s western neighbor. Spring sees the arrival of not only budding flowers, but also great numbers of traders and travelers. Claude continues to visit the castle’s market in disguise, gleaning whatever information he can from the crowds. He learns that Brigid has crowned a new queen, and that the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach has reopened its doors to students.

He learns that Fódlan’s new archbishop has been uncharacteristically absent from the public’s eye.

“I used to see her walking around the monastery, but not anymore. She’s quite the looker,” a chatty merchant tells him. 

“There’s a rumor goin’ around that she’s ill,” another whispers.

_ Ill _ was one way to put it, Claude thinks, pulling nervously at his scarf. He recalls the glowing Relic, counts the moons back in his head. _ One, two, three, four. _

Perhaps the archbishop had reason to hide from her country. 

* * *

That night, in the safety of his studies, Claude starts a letter.

> <strike> _ Byleth _ </strike>
> 
> <strike> _ Dear Byleth _ </strike>
> 
> <strike> _ My Byleth _ </strike>

The owl-feather quill grows heavy, as if it were made of stone. Claude casts it aside and tosses the piece of parchment into the fireplace.

> _ My friend, _
> 
> _ I apologize for my long absence. As much as I would like to blame it on my newfound duties, I _ _<strike> cannot</strike> _ _ will not lie to you. The truth is, I’ve been afraid to contact you again, for reasons you probably already know. _
> 
> _ Almyra is prospering, no doubt due to our strengthening bond with Fódlan. Traveling merchants arrive in the capital by the hundreds now. They bring with them news of lands beyond my country, and although most of it is good, some of it is not. Today I was told that you have fallen ill. I fear that I am the cause of this ‘illness’, and for that I feel a great deal of remorse. _
> 
> _ I wish more than anything that I would have asked you to stay with me all those moons ago. Alas, at my core, I am a coward, and cowards do not say such brave things. _
> 
> _ With your permission, I would like to visit Garreg Mach. I don’t want you to walk this path alone. Of course, I will respect your wishes if you want nothing to do with me. _ <strike>_ I wouldn’t blame you. _</strike>
> 
> _ I miss you. Greatly. The Almyran skies seemed to darken the day you left. _
> 
> _ Yours then, yours now, yours always, _
> 
> _ Claude _

* * *

Ashe arrives several summer moons later, although this time he is alone. He greets Claude with a kind word and a deep bow, and it's only when he looks up that Claude notices the worried crease between his eyes.

“I come bearing a message from the King of Fódlan. He respectfully requests an audience at Garreg Mach to discuss a border treaty. And—,” Ashe’s voice trails as he retrieves a folded letter from his doublet.

“A letter from Archbishop Byleth,” his words are quiet, but to Claude they’re deafening.

* * *

The letter is brief.

> _ Claude, _
> 
> _ My life will change when the Verdant Rain Moon is full. I would like you to be by my side when it does. _
> 
> _ Byleth _

* * *

Preparing for the journey doesn’t take long. Claude packs plain-looking garments and dried foods, a fur-lined bedroll and an unassuming hunting bow. Nobody questions his intentions— that is, nobody _ except _Nader.

“A _ horse!?” _ He roars during their afternoon sparring session. “What kind of Almyran king travels around on a _ horse!?” _

“One that would prefer not to be noticed,” Claude quips back. He swings his sword through the air, only to have it parried away. The impact causes the metal grip to vibrate painfully in his hands.

“Ah-ha!” Nader barks. “So I suppose you’ll be traveling alone, too? Not an ounce of self-preservation in ya!”

“Not true!” Claude shouts, spreading his arms wide. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, because you’re a lucky sonofa—”

Claude brings his hands together and lunges. His sword strikes the dirt where Nader had been just moments before.

_ KT-TANG! _

Nader’s axe swings down onto Claude’s blade, breaking it cleanly in two. Claude inspects the ruined hilt before tossing it into the dust.

“I prefer axes, anyways,” he pouts. Nader mumbles something about _unprepared youths of today_ as he lets his own weapon fall to the ground.

“Look,” he claps a heavy hand onto Claude’s shoulder, his eyes dark. “You know I’m not gonna stop ya. Just try not to get yourself killed, yeah?”

“You don’t think I can handle myself?” Claude flashes a falsely playful smile, but Nader’s expression doesn’t change. 

Suddenly, Claude feels transparent, as if his body were made of glass. Suddenly, Claude is eight years old again, looking bashfully at his feet as Nader scolds him for sneaking into the wyvern stables.

“No, no. I know you can handle yourself,” Nader’s voice is low and warm. “That being said, your old man would be nary too happy about resuming the throne, if something _ were _to happen.”

His brow furrows together.

“Speaking of, you better pay your parents a visit and let ‘em know you’re leaving. Because I'm sure as hell not gonna.”

* * *

The humble forest cottage doesn’t seem like an abode worthy of royalty. In Claude’s mind, however, it suits his parents perfectly. 

“My love, come quickly!” His father, a tall man with silvering hair and crinkles around his eyes, shouts after answering the door. “The _ king _ has come to visit!”

His mother is at the door in a heartbeat, her hand pressed against her face in a gesture of feigned shock. Claude rolls his eyes, but even as he does, he feels the corners of his mouth tug into a grin.

“Well, to what do we owe the pleasure, my _ liege?” _ She curtsies with a mischievous wink.

“What, a son can’t visit his parents out of the goodness of his heart?” Claude draws his mother into his arms. A laugh rumbles in his father’s chest.

“Oh, they can!” He says. “But mine doesn't. Not unless he’s asking for something!”

* * *

His mother makes roasted pheasant for dinner, and Claude revels in how much better it tastes than his chef’s cuisine. Both his parents listen raptly as he reports on his last few moons spent in the capital— his new policies, the foreign merchants. He conveniently forgets to mention the Fódlandian convoy’s visit. 

“So, what’s next for you?” His father asks after their plates have been emptied. Claude sits up straighter in his chair.

_ Tell them, _says a voice in the back of his mind.

“Well, that’s sort of why I came,” he starts, choosing his words carefully. “I, uh, have some news. And I didn’t want you hearing it from anyone other than me.”

The atmosphere in the room changes, as if the flames in the fireplace had suddenly lost their warmth. Claude’s parents exchange a pertinent look before leaning in, expectant.

“I’m leaving for Fódlan tomorrow. I have an audience with King Dimitri about a border treaty. And...”

_ And I want to be present for the birth of my child, _Claude thinks.

He thinks, but he does not say.

“And yeah. I just wanted to let you know.”

_ Coward. _

His father’s sudden focus falls away in favor of an easy grin.

“You had me going there for a second,” he guffaws, downing the rest of his mulled wine. “Thought maybe you’d finally decided to settle down with someone. The Goneril girl, maybe.”

“Dad, just— no,” Claude grimaces, forcing his tone back into something more casual. “I’ll… _settle down_. Eventually. But unfinished business take precedence.”

“Unfinished business,” his father repeats with a chuckle. “I’ve never seen you as a finisher of business, my boy.”

“That’s because I’m not,” is Claude’s counter. “But this is an exception.”

* * *

A few hours and several servings of wine later, Claude finds himself sitting under the night sky, his back pressed against the cool cobblestone of the cottage. His head swims— with drink and with thought. He turns his conversation with his parents over in his mind, dissecting each sentence.

_ Coward, _he chides himself again. Though his secret sat like a stone in his stomach, he still couldn’t choke it out. A memory surfaces— hidden lineages, vague answers, the confused looks of his classmates. He'd wanted to tell them, wanted to share his secret fears and aspirations, but something had stopped him.

The sound of a door creaks through the otherwise silent night, and his mother’s shadow appears. She rounds the corner, a knowing look on her face.

“Thought I might find you out here,” she says, settling at Claude’s side. He stills his tongue, waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t. Instead, they share a moment of silence, and for the first time in a long time, Claude feels his shoulders droop.

He’d always appreciated his mother’s company. His parents were similar in personality— brash, loud, the first in line to raise hell. But there was another layer to his mother— a sort of silent, internal strength. It was what allowed her to walk away from her birthright, from her _ country, _just to be with the one she loved.

“Can I tell you something?” After a while, he finds words. His mother glances in his direction, an eyebrow arched, wordlessly inviting him to speak.

“You know how I’m good at… planning things,” he says lamely.

“I do, as does the rest of this country,” his mother agrees. “Just the other day the village seamstress was telling me about Almyra’s _ master tactician _—”

“Ugh,” Claude is unable to stop himself from groaning. How he got coined a _ master tactician _ while Nader got to be _ Nader the Undefeated _was beyond him. “Anyways. I think I’m good at it because I’m good at taking control. The two go hand-in-hand, you know?”

He sighs. “But lately? I think I’m losing it. Control, that is.”

His mother studies him, her green eyes reflecting his own. The summer wind rustles the surrounding trees, bringing with it the scent of pine cones.

“Do you think you’re afraid of losing control?” She asks after a moment. Claude shakes his head.

“Not exactly,” suddenly, his tongue feels thick, and his voice lowers to a murmur. “I think I’m afraid of… of being afraid. If people see my fear— see their _ leader’s _fear— well, I may not be their leader for much longer.”

His mother closes her eyes, and lets her head fall back against the cottage. She hums a broken tune, one that reminds Claude faintly of his childhood.

“Vulnerability is not the same thing as weakness,” she finally says. “One of the bravest things one can do is admit that they are afraid— _ especially _if that person is in a position of power. A leader to his people, a husband to his partner—”

She turns to him. 

“A father to his child.”

Claude’s mouth goes dry, and Byleth’s letter burns hot in his breast pocket. For a second, he wonders just how transparent he really is. His mother takes one of his hands in both of hers and looks up to the sky.

“You’re doing a good job, son,” she whispers, so quietly that for a moment Claude wonders if he’s just imagining her voice.

“Thanks, ma,” he speaks around the lump in his throat. “I— I’m trying.”

* * *

The journey to the heart of Fódlan is long, but only because Claude makes it so. He stops in every territory that he knows will receive him, breaking bread and swapping tales with old friends. Hilda grills him relentlessly during dinner with her family, and Ignatz and Raphael enthusiastically introduce him to every person in their small village.

“See?” Raphael booms as Claude shakes his sister’s hand. “Told ya your big bro was friends with a king! Er, I _ can _tell people that, right, Claude?”

Upon his arrival in Gloucester territory, Claude is surprised (but not unhappy) to learn that Lorenz had wed Mercedes von Martritz in his absence.

“We wanted to invite you to the wedding,” Lorenz sighs as they share a cup of tea in his luxurious foyer. “Alas, we weren’t sure where to send the invitation, seeing as you disappeared without a trace.”

His words are stiff, but he smiles between sips. His whole face seems to light up when Claude asks about Mercedes.

“She’s a wonderful woman, truly the best of us all,” his eyes mist over, and Claude resists the urge to gag. Lorenz tells him of her efforts to heal the scarred country, and how she had adopted several young children orphaned by the war.

“I always _ did _see myself as becoming a father one day,” he comments, before continuing to wax poetic. His words fill Claude with an unfamiliar emotion— sadness? Longing?

Whatever it is, he brushes it aside.

Mercedes arrives home not long after, and the family throws a lavish feast in Claude’s honor. Lorenz relishes the opportunity to host royalty, arriving dressed in his best clothes. Even their children boast finely tailored garments, although some have untidy hair, and one grips tightly to a tree branch. They all eye Claude nervously from the other side of the long table.

“It’s impolite to stare, Emile,” Mercedes softly chides one of the boys before turning to Claude, her eyes curving sweetly. “So, what brings you to Fódlan?”

“Politics,” it’s only partially a lie, Claude thinks. “Boring stuff.”

“Politics, boring? Pah!” Lorenz scoffs. “You have not changed a bit, my friend.”

One of the children echoes his haughty _ pah, _ and a chorus of giggles rises up. To Claude’s surprise, Lorenz smiles fondly at them, as does Mercedes.

“I’ll be travelling to Garreg Mach soon myself,” she turns back to Claude. “I just received the request from Linhardt this morning.”

“Oh, really?” Claude raises an eyebrow between sips of soup. “Perhaps you ought to accompany me, then.”

“N-no!” Lorenz stammers, his pitch raised. “Ah, I mean, that won’t be necessary. I’m sending her with a battalion of my finest soldiers.”

Claude grins to himself as Lorenz struggles to regain his composure.

“Ahem, yes, well, I think it’s about time we moved to the next course. And Claude, _ do _stop slurping your soup. You’re setting a poor example for the children.”

* * *

That night, Claude stays up late. He sits atop a plush armchair in Lorenz’s study, the children gathered at his feet on the rug below. He recounts for them tales of mythical beasts and valiant heroes, of warrior princesses and evil mages. They hang on to his every word, their faces full of wonder, and Claude suddenly understands why Lorenz and Mercedes had looked upon them with such tender eyes.

He also teaches them several Almyran curse words.

* * *

The Verdant Rain Moon brings a wet heat to the rolling Fódlandian plains. It’s the sort of heat that makes the air feel thick and heavy, as if the world was spinning under the waves of the ocean. Rain occasionally falls in great sheets from the heavens, accompanied by arcing lightning and thunder that shakes the limbs of the trees.

It’s during one of these storms that Claude crosses into Daphnel territory. He’s tired— much too tired to entertain the overbearing Hero of Daphnel. However, the allure of a warm bed was too much to resist, and thus he found himself rapping on the estate’s door.

“Heard you might be stopping by,” Judith slugs Claude in the arm affectionately, and Claude tries very hard to hide his wince. He’s given a change of clothes and some spiced stew that warms his very core, and after the bowl is empty Judith slams a stein brimming with beer into his hands.

“So,” she starts, settling on the other side of the table with her own drink. “It’s been a while. What’s new?”

The hours pass comfortably enough, to Claude’s pleasant surprise. He talks about the border treaty, his parents, and what Fódlandian foods he misses the most. Judith fills him in on Dimitri’s unification initiatives, mentioning happily that hostilities between House Daphnel and House Galatea were finally waning.

“That Dimitri, he’s a good one,” she says, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Not as good as that Almyran king, but he’ll do.”

Claude feels his mouth tug into a smile. As domineering as Judith was known to be, she always meant well. Eventually, the pounding rain ceases, and the two of them venture outside to tap the beer kegs once more. The moon sits high in the sky, half full, casting an ethereal glow upon the Daphnel grounds.

_ My life will change when the Verdant Rain Moon is full. _

“Nice night,” Judith comes to stand by Claude, following his gaze. She’s right— the rain had left behind a pleasant coolness, and the smell of cedar and Daphnel coriander wafts pleasantly in the air.

_ Tell her. _

For the second time, a voice in the back of his head— no, in his _ heart— _urges him to speak. And Claude thinks it might be the beer, or the sight of the moon, or the sheer exhaustion of travel, but whatever the reason, he does.

“Hey, Judith. Can I tell you something? A secret?”

“A little old for secrets, aren’t we?” Judith smirks, but she gestures with her sloshing stein for Claude to continue.

“There's… this woman,” he takes a breath, musters his courage.

“And I— and _we—_ well,” he swallows. “I think I’m going to be a father. Maybe. Probably.”

At first, Judith offers no response— not even a widened eye or a gaping mouth. She brings her drink to her lips and drinks deeply for five, fifteen, _ thirty _seconds before pulling away with a satisfying smack.

“I _ knew _you had it in you, boy!” She hollers into the sky, slamming an open hand into Claude’s back. The horses in the nearby paddock bray nervously, and somewhere, a startled owl flutters into the night. 

“Judith, gods,” Claude cards through his hair with his free hand, an unwelcome blush rising in his cheeks.

“So who’s the lucky lady? Someone back in Almyra?”

“Garreg Mach, actually,” Claude mumbles. “Look, forget I—”

“Garreg Mach! Oh, Claude,” Judith’s face suddenly contorts. “Don’t tell me you fucked a nun.”

“No! No,” Claude wishes for death. “Not… not _ exactly.” _

“The archbishop, then. Byleth.”

The night seems to quiet around them. Again, Byleth’s letter burns anew in Claude’s pocket.

“Yeah. The archbishop,” he whispers her name for the first time in a long time. “Byleth.”

“Eh. Could have done worse,” she tips the last of her beer into her mouth and stands, offering Claude a hand. “Let’s go inside. I may not have kids, but I know a thing or two about corralling them.”

* * *

When Claude leaves the next morning, he feels lighter. The stone in his stomach is still there, but it’s smaller, more manageable. Judith sends him away with a full larder and the promise of more stew should he stop by on his way home.

“And tell that mother of yours it wouldn’t kill her to visit once in a while!” She yells after him with a smile. 

The climb through the Oghma Mountains takes him five whole days. He stops only to eat and catch a few hours of fitful sleep in his bedroll. The region is sparsely populated, so Claude passes the time by guessing the names of the singing birds, and creating words to go along with their songs.

It’s not until he reaches the outskirts of Garreg Mach that he sees another friendly (well, _ familiar, _at least) face.

“We heard reports of a suspicious traveler in Daphnel territory,” Felix Fraldarius speaks without looking Claude in the eye. He’s accompanied by Sylvain and Dedue, who flank his sides like a pair of mismatched sentinels.

“Guess we found him,” Sylvain laughs. The four of them chat politely as the sun peers over the surrounding mountains. When Claude mentions his audience with Dimitri, Felix hums.

“That makes sense,” he says. “His Highness mentioned something about a border treaty.”

Claude thinks it’s odd to hear Felix refer to Dimitri as anything other than a wild animal, let alone address him with honorifics. It reminds him of how much time had passed since their days at the Officer’s Academy.

“You’ll have to visit the prof— er, the _ archbishop _while you’re here,” Sylvain adds. “She always did like you.”

“Yeah,” Claude looks away. “Yeah.”

“You know she’s having a—”

“That’s classified information, Sylvain,” Dedue’s voice booms, whether intentionally or not. Sylvain grins sheepishly and shuffles closer to Felix.

“Ah, yeah, well,” he says with a sly grin. “You know.”

And although Claude _ shouldn’t _know, he does.

“Anyways,” Felix’s voice carries a note of finality. “We should get back to our patrol. Watch your back on the way up to the monastery.”

“Watch your back for _ bandits, _ is what he means,” Sylvain is quick to add. “No need to worry about us. We weren’t planning to follow you or any— _ hey!” _

He screeches as Felix grabs hold of his left ear and yanks him away. Dedue sighs a long-suffering sigh before following after them.

Yes, it had been a long time since they were at the Officer’s Academy together. 

But not _ that _long.

* * *

Garreg Mach Monastery sits proudly as ever, the very heart and soul of Fódlan. The ground seems to buzz under Claude’s feet as he steps into the bustling market at the monastery’s gates for the first time since the war. He tucks his scarf securely around his face and peruses the crowded stalls. He purchases a bundle of pine needle tea from an elderly shopkeeper he recognizes from his school days.

“The Almyran merchants tell me this is their king’s favorite,” the man says as he counts out Claude’s change.

“Their king has good taste, then,” Claude can’t help himself.

The monastery’s grounds are not as well kept as they used to be, but Claude prefers them this way. The flowers overflow from the confines of their gardens, and the grasses grow tall and wild, their feathered tips swaying in the summer breeze. Students of the Officer’s Academy mill about the courtyards, talking and laughing among themselves. 

Claude wanders slowly, purposefully. He pauses for just a moment outside the former Golden Deer classroom, resting a hand on the worn wooden door frame. The brilliant yellow banners that once decorated the rafters had been stripped away, replaced by ones bearing the unified Fódlandian coat of arms. In the far corner, he spots the desk where he and Hilda used to pass notes, and the scorch mark where Lysithea had once tried to curse him.

“Claude?” A familiar voice pulls him back into the present. He turns, only to stagger backwards when a small figure barrels into him.

“Annette!” He coughs as she squeezes his middle. 

“It’s _ so _good to see you!” She all but sobs into his chest. Claude pats the top of her head, painfully aware of the way the students in the courtyard were staring.

It takes Annette a few moments to compose herself. When she does, she takes a step back and surveys Claude before inundating him with questions— When did he arrive? Why was he here? Was he hungry?

“Just now, a meeting with the king, and actually yeah, I am,” he gestures toward the dining hall. “Shall we?”

Annette nods enthusiastically, and the two of them begin to walk. On the way, Annette is stopped by a student, who meekly offers her a hand-drawn diagram.

“Good, good,” she studies it with flitting eyes. “Make sure you double check this here. If you come by my office after class tomorrow, I'll loan you my book on solar cycles. That should help.”

“Thanks, Professor Annette!” The student calls as he slips away. Claude raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah,” her voice is bashful. “I teach here now.”

“Ah! Well, my apologies, _ Professor,” _Claude steps away and bows at the neck, and Annette blushes furiously.

* * *

The dining hall serves them both a heaping portion of roasted quail topped with a sweet berry sauce. Claude eats voraciously while Annette talks about reopening the Officer’s Academy, and about life as a professor.

“I’m not surprised you ended up back here,” he says through a mouthful of food. “You always were the smart one.”

Annette rolls her eyes, but is betrayed by her smile.

“Okay, enough about me,” she says after awhile. “What about you? How’s Almy— ”

She stops mid-sentence, the color draining from her cheeks. 

“Wait— _ right. _ You’re a _ king. _ Gods, have I been rude? Should I bow?”

“Please don’t,” Claude laughs, and Annette’s panicked expression fades. “Here, I’m no king. Here, I’m just a foreigner with an ego.”

“Sorry,” she smiles. “It’s just… _ weird, _you know? You’re a king, Dimitri’s a king, Byleth is the archbishop...”

She stabs her fork into her quail.

“Strange times.”

“Strange times, indeed,” Claude clears his throat. “Er, speaking of Byleth, I heard a rumor that she’s… ill?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Annette glances around, as if checking for eavesdropping ears. “Um, can you keep a secret?”

Claude’s stomach flops. He nods, and Annette leans closer, her chest dangerously close to the sauce on her plate.  
  
“She’s not actually sick,” she whispers. “She’s _ pregnant.” _

There it was. Even though in his heart of hearts Claude knew all along, it was the first time he’d heard the words spoken out loud.

“W-Wow,” is all he can manage to say. “I, um, congratulations.”

“Right?” Annette beams. “She’ll be happy to hear you’re visiting. She hasn’t been able to get out much, seeing as…”

The roar of blood in Claude’s ears drowns out her voice, drowns out the low buzz of the dining hall. His jaw locks as the stone walls contort and bend, threatening to cage him in, swallow him whole.

_Don’t do this, _ he wills himself. _ Come on, Claude. Snap out of it._

But he can’t. He can’t open his mouth, he can’t feel his feet, he can’t stay upright...

“Claude?” Annette asks, but her voice is far away. “Claude, are you okay? You suddenly look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” Claude chokes, obviously not fine. “I think I just need… to… lay down…”

The last thing he feels is the sticky sensation of berry sauce against his face.

* * *

_Soft…_

The cot is soft. The pillows are soft. 

The voices that chatter around Claude’s head, however, are _ not _so soft.

“All I’m saying is that if _ Almyra _ finds out their _ king _ was _ poisoned _—”

“He wasn’t poisoned, Caspar, you _ dunce.” _

“How do you kn—”

“Boys, _ please! _Can you go flirt somewhere else!?”

Claude’s eyes flutter open, and he finds himself staring up at the drab stone ceiling of the Garreg Mach infirmary. He knows this room well, having spent many an hour getting patched up by whatever white magic user was available.

This time, it’s Annette, seated next to his cot with a palm on his chest. Her face flashes with annoyance when she realizes Claude has awoken.

“Look what you’ve done,” she pouts, the healing light fading from her fingertips.

“You mean look what _ he’s _done,” Linhardt casts a scathing glance at Caspar, who immediately opens his mouth to retort. He doesn’t get a chance, though, because a gust of wind flies from Annette’s outstretched hand, sending them both back towards the infirmary entrance. They slink into the hallway, muttering, the door slamming behind them.

“Sorry,” she gives Claude an apologetic smile. “I asked them for help getting you up here, but I didn’t expect them to hang around for so long. How are you feeling? You must have been _exhausted_ from your journey. You know, I never did like those long marches…”

Annette is quick to fill the silence with chatter, and for that Claude is grateful. She rests her hand back on his chest and resumes her healing magic. It feels pleasant, and Claude lets his head fall back against the pillow, his eyes once again sliding shut.

_You’re a mess, _he scolds himself. What sort of self-respecting king fainted into his dinner? A pathetic one, that’s for sure.

_V__ulnerability is not the same thing as weakness, _echoes his mother’s voice.

So why did he feel so weak? Why did helplessness follow him like a dark cloud?

“Hey, Claude,” Annette’s voice takes on a different timbre. “Are you _ sure _you’re okay? You don’t… really seem like yourself.”

_Tell her, _says his heart. _ It helped last time._

_Fuck it, _Claude thinks. 

* * *

He tells Annette everything behind the closed infirmary door. The encounter with Byleth at Gronder Field, and how she turned her own sword on Dimitri to offer him an escape. Their reunion at Derdriu, and all the words he wanted to say but didn’t (gods, _ why _didn’t he say them?). He recalls Byleth’s visit under the pretense of returning Failnaught, and how the golden bow had shimmered to life at her touch.

He retrieves the worn letter from his breast pocket and recites it by memory.

By the time he runs out of words, the sun was sinking into the horizon, its rays casting an orange shadow upon the room. Annette clutches his hand in hers, a single tear traveling slowly down her face.

“You’re a good man, Claude,” she whispers, and Claude’s chest tightens. 

“No, I’m not,” his voice is hoarse with use. “But I’m trying to be.”

* * *

Annette leaves him once the moon rises in the sky. It’s nearly full, missing but a tiny sliver on one side.

Sleep does not come. Claude doubts that it will. Instead, he lies awake, eyes trained on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the stone. He remembers doing the very same during his time as a student, on nights when his homesick heart kept him up.

After what feels like hours, the infirmary door creaks open. Claude immediately feigns sleep, just barely peeking out of one eye.

Mercedes steps softly among the empty cots, followed by Linhardt, whose footsteps are considerably louder. They open a medicine cabinet and rummage through it, murmuring softly to each other.

“... think it’s silly to keep holding out like this,” Linhardt’s voice is barely audible. “She’s _obviously_ ready.”

“She has her reasons for waiting,” Mercedes replies, tucking a silver vial into her blouse. “Eventually, we won’t be able to stop it. But while we still can, we will.”

She turns towards Claude’s cot, and Claude squeezes his eyes shut.

“He’ll come around. When he’s ready.”

Linhardt mutters something incoherent, but follows dutifully in her wake. The pair collect several more medicines before slipping back into the hall, letting the door close with a soft _ click. _

“When he’s ready,” Claude mouths to himself. When he’s _ ready. _

Byleth was waiting for him.

Blood surges in his veins as he leaps from the cot, retrieving his clothes and throwing them on. He catches a glance of his face in a nearby mirror and combs his fingers hastily through his hair, begging it to lay flat. 

_He’ll come around. When he’s ready._

Would he ever truly be ready? No, probably not.

But was he ready when he became heir to the Alliance? Was he ready when he gambled the lives of thousands on one well-written letter to Dimitri?

Had he _ ever _ really been ready for _ anything? _

And yet, here he was, very much alive, very much breathing. Things had worked out, regardless of whether he was ready for them or not. All he had to do was take that first step.

He pushes open the infirmary door and careens into the hall, feeling quite unprepared, but more ready than ever.

* * *

Standing guard at the doors of the archbishop’s suite is none other than the King of Fódlan himself. Dimitri stands tall, the light from his Relic lance washing the hallway in a dreamlike glow. Dedue stands at the door’s other side, his face stern.

Claude steps tentatively into view, dropping into a bow.

“Your Kingliness, Dedue,” he says, looking at the floor. “Sorry about the hour. Ate something bad in the dining hall.”

“Claude,” Dimitri's voice is sincere. “My brother. It’s good to see you.”

He sets Areadbhar aside and pulls Claude into a bone-cracking hug before holding him at arm’s length.

“You look…” Dimitri pauses. “Well, you looked troubled.”

“You really know how to make a guy blush, your Highness,” Claude teases, and Dimitri laughs, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the small space.

“Just Dimitri is fine,” he says. “Tell me, would letting you through these doors ease your mind?”

“Um,” again, a dizzy feeling threatens to pull Claude under. He beats it away with the last of his willpower. “D-didn’t you request an audience? Should we take care of that first?”

“Oh, yes,” Dimitri looks thoughtful. “What do you think about opening the border between our countries?”

Claude blinks.

“Please,” he breathes. “I mean— sure, of course. Absolutely. I will give the news to my council immediately.”  
  
“Great,” says Dimitri, smiling with his whole face. “Audience over. Now then, I believe you have more important matters to attend to.”

He gestures to the doors before stepping towards Dedue, who loops a gentle arm around his middle. They look at each other with a warmth that suits them well.

Claude stills his breath, steadies his step.

And pushes the door open.

* * *

She’s great with his child, and more beautiful than ever. 

Claude kisses her now like he kissed her then, a million unsaid words passing between them.

“You came,” she whispers into his lips. “You _ came.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading.
> 
> for less serious content, here's my twitter: @klairev0yance (with a zero)


	3. Epilogue

"Gah!"

Haroun's voice pierces the evening air as the flat edge of Byleth's sword connects with his belly, sending him tumbling into the dusty red soil.

"Haroun!" Byleth calls after him. She curses herself as she drops to his side. "I— ah. That was way too hard. I'm sorry."

"S'okay," he coughs, frustration creasing his brow. Byleth breathes a sigh of relief, feeling for the hundredth (thousandth?) time like a failed mother. She searches for something to say— a word of encouragement? Some inspiring quote?

"Your stance was too wide," is what she decides on. Haroun cocks an eyebrow at her, as if to say _really?_

She tries again. "Do you want to go one more time?"

Haroun sits the rest of the way up with a good-natured sigh. He glowers resentfully at the wooden training sword in his palm, as if it had lain an unholy hex on him.

"Can I switch to an axe?" He asks, tacking on a sugar-coated _please?_ when Byleth shakes her head.

"Today, we use swords," twelve years of parenthood (and a few years of marriage) had bestowed her the ability to resist even the poutiest of lips. Haroun grumbles under his breath, rising again to his feet.

"Fine," he says, but Byleth can almost see the cogs in his head turning. "How about we make a bet, then?"

Curiosity tugs the corners of her mouth into a grin. 

"Depends," she turns her sword's wooden hilt over in her hand. "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

It's a simple wager— sword practice ends as soon as Haroun lands a hit. At first, his strikes are rushed, sloppy, indicative of his young age. He dives desperately at Byleth, paying no mind to her swinging blade, or her sweeping leg. 

"Haroun, think!" She chides, after putting him in the dirt for the sixth time. "A head-on attack against a larger opponent will rarely work out in your favor. Wait until you see an opening!"

"Whatever you say, Teach!" Haroun quips back, fluttering his dark lashes, trying his damnedest to get under his mother's skin. Byleth can only clench her teeth in response.

_You'll regret teaching him that one._

They reset once more, prowling around each other like a pair of wildcats. Byleth watches as Haroun adjusts his feet, finds his center of balance, _learns_ from his previous mistakes. He levels his sword, and his excited grin becomes a determined glare.

The world slows. Byleth can't help but to stop, to stare.

For a moment, she sees a reflection of herself. Tired and sweaty and caked with dirt, but still eager for her next taste of victory.

For another, much longer moment, she sees Claude. Haroun is a near perfect echo of his father— the untameable hair, the unshakeable confidence. Even his expressions were borrowed from Claude, right down to the enigmatic winks.

Byleth takes a grounding breath, reorients herself. Sentiment had no place in a fight. The red sun continues to set behind the tall pines bordering the castle's grounds. Haroun watches Byleth with glinting amber eyes— _Jeralt's _eyes.

_KRRRRRTCH._

Somewhere behind them both, a rusty stable doors squeaks open. Byleth takes the opportunity to, very pointedly, look over her shoulder…

She hears Haroun kilter forward. Pride swells golden in her chest as she braces herself for the nip of the dull sword.

But instead, something odd happens.

A wyvern shrieks from the open stables, its shrill voice piercing the heavy evening air. Haroun's feather-light footsteps are replaced with the metallic grind of armor, his quick breaths drowned out by the low, rattling moans of suffocating men.

Smoke fills Byleth's nose. A dark memory twists into view, demanding to be recalled— singed flesh, burning trees. A pain that made her wish for death's cold embrace…

Before she can react, she's on the ground, the training sword clattering to her side. An unfillable fissure opens inside her, a great hungry mouth lined with gnashing teeth.

* * *

_When she first awakened from her five year sleep, she didn't understand Dimitri's anguish. Her efforts to comfort him, to bring him back to the world of the living, all fell on deafened ears. She could only step alongside his empty shell, watching with somber eyes as he let the dead control the very beat of his heart._

_It used baffled her. How could he allow this to happen? How could he focus so wholly on the dead, leaving nothing for the living? How could a man once so revered for his strength and leadership allow himself to become nothing more than a vengeful ghost?_

_That was then._

_Now, she understood._

_During the war, those that had left them were still fresh in her mind. She knew their names, their faces. What they liked to eat, where they liked to go when the sun was bright and the winds were pleasant._

_But time demanded a toll, and the sharp edges of the newly-hewn gravestones began to wear away. With every rain shower, every cycle of the moon, the details blurred away even more. Suddenly, Byleth couldn't remember the name of the soldier that guarded Garreg Mach's entrance, or the words of the song her father used to hum to her as a child._

_Loss grips her chest like an undead hand. Stale air burns her lungs as she refuses to draw breath, refuses to live when those she failed to protect could not…_

_The grind of armor, the rattle of hot breath. A wicked axe, inches away from her throat. Tears tricking down her cheeks as she braces for the end._

* * *

"Mama!?"

A gentle warmth, a soft voice. Another memory unravels behind her clenched eyes— a face that was both foreign and familiar, a fading world returning to brilliant color. Cool relief flooding over her lips and into her veins.

Claude— no, _Haroun_, had come for her. His voice pulls her back, just like his father before him.

"Mama?" He says again, a little more panicked. "A-are you okay?"

_I will be okay for you, _Byleth thinks, but cannot say.

"The wyvern," she stammers instead. "It startled me."

Haroun blinks, obviously unconvinced. He lifts an empty hand to Byleth's forehead, as if to check for a fever. His weapon is nowhere to be seen.

"Where's your sword? You should have attacked while I was distracted."

"That wouldn't be very fair," Haroun's voice is short, and he wears a frown that doesn't belong on his face.

"Fights aren't always fair," Byleth counters, rising unsteadily to her feet. Haroun keeps close to her side, warm against her clammy skin. "War is never fair."

"War sounds lame," he tuts, and affection for him crashes over Byleth like a wave on the Almyran shores. He's every bit as defiant as he was in the days following his birth, when he screamed himself hoarse for hour upon unending hour.

(In the end, Claude was the only one who could silence him. He would swaddle his newborn son tightly to his chest while he walked the monastery's grounds for hours, _days,_ all while wearing the same, stupid grin. Even after Haroun finally succumbed to sleep, Claude would clutch him tightly, watching his slumbering face with a mystified look in his eyes.)

"Agreed. War was lame," Byleth finally says, her breath coming a little easier. "But it's over. Come on, let's go again."

* * *

Nighttime in the Almyran capital brought with it a sort of buzzing energy that Byleth had grown to love. The crowded market at the mouth of the castle became a makeshift stage for music and merriment, attracting people from all around to dance and sing and drink from sloshing steins. 

They train until the fireflies begin to flicker, until the moon silvers the needles of the trees. Haroun punches at the air when he finally manages to tap Byleth in the back with his sword.

"Hey, nice one!" A unmistakable voice calls from the nearby barracks. Byleth turns as Claude himself appears in the doorway, wearing a smile that suggests he had been watching for a while. Ilya squirms restlessly in his grasp, begging in her tiny voice to be let down.

Haroun's whole body seems to vibrate in response to his father's praise. He casts his sword aside and runs to greet him.

"Didja see that?" He asks eagerly, and Claude nods, ruffling his free hand through Haroun's sweaty hair. The momentary distraction allows Ilya to wriggle free, and she zooms immediately towards the nearest firefly. Haroun follows dutifully after her, his arms stretched out, ready to catch her should she tumble over.

The sight of them together soothes Byleth, chases away the last fractals of her terrible vision.

"Did you let him do it?" Claude's voice says from behind her. He rests his chin on her shoulder, the hairs of his beard tickling her skin. "Knock you down, I mean."

"Actually, no," Byleth says. "He's improving."

"He'll be better with a sword than me one day. Not that that's a feat worth boasting about," Claude replies with a chuckle. He wraps his arms around Byleth's waist, pulling her body into his. Byleth leans into his familiar touch, fills her lungs with the scent of his skin.

"What are you thinking about?" She asks. Sometimes, she could tell. But once in a great while, his easy smile befuddled her, like a word spoken in a forgotten language.

"Mmm," he hums, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. "I'm thinking that maybe it's time for a woman of your… _condition… _to stop rolling around in the dirt for a while.

His hands drift to the tiny swell of her belly. It was just starting to protrude, which meant Byleth would soon be forced to dig the specially-made clothes out of the back of her closet.

"I traveled across an entire continent carrying Haroun," she frowns. "Or have you already forgotten about that?"

"Touché," Claude laughs. "Have it your way."

He falls silent, his watchful eyes trained on the children. The years had put gray in his hair and lines on his face, but his gaze was still sharp as ever, as if he were always searching for where his next arrow may land.

In the distance, Haroun snatches a firefly out of the air. He places it into Ilya's outstretched hand.

"Careful, Illie," he warns. "Don't smush him."

Ilya gapes as the firefly crawls along her arm, squealing with delight when it flashes its yellow light. Byleth smiles too. Their hearts were free, spared of the ache that so many of them felt.

"There's something on your mind, too."

Nothing got past Claude.

"It's… I—," Byleth sighs. "It happened again. The visions."

Claude doesn't press, opting instead to plant a kiss on her neck, right where it met with her shoulder.

"So it did," he says, his voice impossibly soft. "And so it will again."

"But I'm here. I'm with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! this epilogue was heavily inspired by some of the crazy good fanart i've seen on twitter lately, notably that of twitter user @jullika08. seriously just... so good.
> 
> (come be my friend on twitter. i'm @klairev0yance)


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